


world/ is probably made/ of roses & hello:

by kyanos



Category: Merlin - Fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 13:49:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyanos/pseuds/kyanos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(of solongs and,ashes)</p>
            </blockquote>





	world/ is probably made/ of roses & hello:

Sunrise finds Arthur stood in the very heart of the Valley of Diask - even the most earnest rays of the ruddy rising sun fail to reach the prince. The night of fighting has melded his sword to his hands; all his weight leaning on the bloodied sword thrust in to the unyielding earth, head bowed. He can hear the moans of the injured, the cries of the dying and the last weary clangs of sword upon sword, sword upon shield. The light spring breeze is heady with the smell of blood mixed with soot - there is an underlying current of strong sweetness like an orchard littered with burst ripe fruit. The contrast makes him balk. His battle is over - he stands here to mourn the dead. That of his allies is not, they're still hacking and thrusting and parrying through an unrelenting foe. Closer to home he can see Leon quietly giving commands for the bodies of the enemy to be burnt. They've already buried theirs, under fragrant earth rich with small colourful wildflowers splattered with blood.

He blinks when the creeping sunlight descends down the slopes and burnishes the knuckles of his gauntlet in coppery gold. He's held his vigil long enough, the sun arisen in earnest and the battle finally over. He raises his head with an uncharacteristic slowness and the first thing his eyes land on is his manservant, looking strangely innocuous in hunting gear, head held straight but eyes bowed down. In a sea of sharp blades and sturdy steel - his thick leather vest is a poor protection and his very first instinct is to step in front of Merlin - one arm curled around the space of his middle the other raised fist first towards whatever dared to approach him. But then blue eyes, dark with exhaustion are raised to meet his and he pulls his arm back - halfway through covering the space between them as he is reminded: the eyes, the eyes, the eyes that can go from ocean blue to blazing golden sun in a blink and that Merlin doesn't need his protection, never did. Merlin still catches the half aborted act and smiles in earnest thanks nonetheless, warmth dissipating the dark navy - turning it a shade brighter.

They hold each others eyes, the moment dissolving into stillness, quietude like rippled water turning to soft glass. Arthur finds time to straighten his arm, pull his forgotten sword out all under the quiet gaze of his friend who looks on in understanding. He jerks his head once towards their camp when he's finished to signal that he's done and that it's over. Merlin falls in to step beside him easily enough like he'd never been away.

There are a thousand things he wants to ask and emotions he wants to string in to words - Arthur has never been a poet but in between all the shades of gray he's lived, the part of him which is a warrior shines through in the simplicity and starkness of expression when he's pressed. All the greys fade in to either black or white, he muses as his tent comes in to sight. When he raises his sword and prepares to thrust, one can not philosophise. Either you thrust or you don't. Life and death. Enemy or friend. When he's in the heat of battle, that's what it whittles down, he thinks while nodding to Gawain who looks a bit jaded but rises and joins them with an uncharacteristically subdued greeting. The same was with Merlin, he felt that his whole world - his own, the one he built in his heart watching from his mind's eye, painstakingly picking the people who populated it, the shade of the sky, the warmth in the wind - had come hurling down, screeching and howling with pain at each brick struck down when Merlin took him in to confidence about his magic.

At the time despite the pain and the stinging burn of betrayal and hurt that came licking a fiery path inside his chest, Merlin's look of silent trepidation and quaking uncertainty cut clean through it, blessing him with a moment of clarity. Like how in battle just before the final blow time seems to thicken and congeal for a moment giving him a mere fraction of a moment to decide whether to impart life or death - he felt he was in the same position. So he simply let the sword fall and held out his empty hand towards Merlin, who did look as though was just freed from a death sentence, and Merlin took it instantly almost gripping it too tight as though Arthur might pull back any second.

Then, in the eye of the storm Merlin the friend ( _selfless Merlin who would blindly put himself in front of Arthur without even pausing to look at whether it was an old crone chucking rotten apples at him or the general of an immortal army, glorious Merlin who could instantly clear the fear wrecking Morgana with a few comforting words and an easy smile, loyal Merlin who was willing to lay his life down for Uther if it eased Arthur any, Merlin who is all sweet charm and fresh innocence..._ ) still held more weight than Merlin the sorcerer ( _who he'd later learn and come to know to be just as trustworthy and surprising as the Merlin he'd known, Merlin the dragonlord who could contain the terrifying power of flesh and flame millenia old with a few guttural words, Merlin the lord Emrys who commanded heaven and earth and struck fear and awe in to the hearts of the greatest and worst sorcerers of his time with the sheer magnitude of his raw power, Merlin the warlock who would use the same awesome magic to heat his baths to perfection in the chilling winter or to bloom small shining flowers and griffins and knights for little druid children_ ) and for that charged moment where he felt something monumental was thrust in his hands with freedom of choice. Like a gold crown bearing kingship of the world wrapped up in rags and thrown at his feet casually by the capricious gods to see what will the human do, silently laughing at the misery of their charges.

It still took a long time to reconcile the two, he sulked and shouted and hurt and got shouted back at and hurt and annoyed with in return. But they fought through it, together beating out the creases from the unwieldy thing they had become until both of them were sore and bleeding and wounded but they got each other back, all solidness and crystal clarity. Finally Arthur thought, he was beholden to a part of Merlin he knew before he couldn't reach, it was laid out for him to see and do whatever with. And such trust is not easily given so he chose to cherish it and felt honoured and inordinately pleased and decided it was worth it. It still is.

He breathes in the early morning air to clear his head and while the soot and blood and rot get in the way, the biting coolness is a welcome relief. Merlin and Gwaine follow him in to his tent - Gwaine promptly makes a beeline for Arthur's (rarely used) alcohol stash. Instead of crystal decanters there are leather skins hung on hooks and Gwaine grabs the one closest to him. Arthur watches him pour the thick mead for himself while Merlin gets to work on taking off the more cumbersome parts of his armour. The breastplate remains as well as his shin guard. It wouldn't do to get caught because of a little carelessness and Arthur has always been nothing if careful.

**Author's Note:**

> A mostly unrelated string of drabbles and one-shots, no idea what it'll look like in the coming times so I'll leave further comments until then. Stay around if you will. 
> 
> Oh - and thanks to ee cummings for the title x


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